


Mars & Murrie's

by AutoResponder



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Established Relationship, M/M, Omorashi, Pseudo-Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 13:20:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7642132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AutoResponder/pseuds/AutoResponder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Luckily for Dave, you're willing to try anything at least once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mars & Murrie's

  


 

You nearly spat your Orange Crush when the inconspicuous .jpeg Dave slipped you titled so listen turned out to be an Urban Dictionary screencap of some Japanese piss fetish. It took all of five seconds for you to recompose yourself, clear your throat, and send him a very casual “What the fuck?” in response.

TG: what  
TT: Should I bother asking?  
TG: idk what youre talking about  
TT: You wouldn't be sending me this unless it was something you were interested in.  
TG: maaaan

turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering timaeusTestified [TT]

TT: Dave.

timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG]

 

Well, that went entirely as expected.

 

You'll never understand why he can't just come outright and ask you about stuff instead of getting self conscious and sectioning himself off whenever you poke the slightest fun or suspicions towards something he's interested in. Your bro was already thirty damn years old and he still acted like a child. _You_ were the nineteen year old, you shouldn't have had to play Adult Babysitter with your older sibling. But alas, that's what it had come to. As usual.

Omorashi wasn't something you were new to discovering. The internet has been a consistent stable in your life and you've seen your fair share of weird porn and creepy Hentai. Urine fetishes were very popular in the latter, you'd come to realize the longer you spent researching websites. You could have made the observation that it was just as popular in Western porn, but the audience was typically unaware of the differences between squirting and orgasming from a cooch turkey-bastered with water. So, probably not as common on your half of the equator. That would have explained Dave's aversion to confessing his desires in experimenting, leading him to slide subtle hints in your direction.

A sigh slips passed your lips as you open a new browser window, quickly Googling a few innocuous questions. 20 minutes of searching provided you with several results on how to remove stains, prevent urinary tract infections, and the average length in which a man should hold his bladder before release was necessary. You think you can handle it. You doubt Dave would be the type to do it himself, and the man could barely hold it for an hour before he was doing the fucking Pee-Pee Dance anyway. The bathroom door was not allowed to be locked, for his sake.

Unsurprising. You theorize that this is most likely the reason why Omorashi appeals to him.

Luckily for Dave, you're willing to try anything at least once.

 

But a plan would need to be formulated. You're not about to spring this on him all willy nilly without giving him a heads up, even if it _is_ something he's shown a preference to. You could safely assume that even with Dave's experience in sexual intercourse (he's had partners before you), he hasn't tried it yet. He would have told you back when you interrogated him on the plethora of kinks he had a week before you kicked off your socially unacceptable relationship last year. It was your birthday. You wore lingerie. Also, Dave's list of kinks were extremely minuscule.

In hindsight you should have treated him more nicely, thinking of that. Probably opened up a bit more instead of instantly scrutinizing him about his curiosity. You'll make it up to him. You can hear his door opening from out in the hall and you take this as an opportunity to intercept your brother before he goes to do whatever at wherever. Meetings with producers, editors, the whole rigmarole. Stuff you don’t care about.

You push yourself away from the desk, quietly making your way across the room and into the corridor. Dave’s loud in the kitchen, like always, mumbling some incoherent raps to himself as he rummages around the cabinets and fridge. Probably getting a drink. A short walk reveals to you that yes indeed he certainly is getting a drink. Specifically, he’s mixing rum with apple juice. The fuck. You don’t think you’re going to question it. Instead you elect to call his name and get his attention while he’s in your presence. “Dave.”

It scares the shit out of him.

He jumps in his skin (flinches), and turns to face you, decked out in a full suit and tie, shades propped onto his peepers. Yours stare directly into his, and by the tilt of his head you can tell he’s avoiding shade-contact. It’s a little ridiculous, but you don’t make mention of it. “Yo. I’m about to head out. You know. Movie shit, gotta free the animals from the zoo, tape it, slap a gag reel on it, thinkin’ about calling it Animals Gone Wild In The Twist Nobody Could Have Expected. What you need?”

“I see.” You don’t really, but that’s fine. You’re sure whatever horse shit he’s going to come up with for his next film is brilliant regardless of how it sounds on paper, like an MSI video. You’ve gathered by now that asking him when he’ll be back is redundant. He gives you the exact same estimation each time, which is a universal constant _I don’t know._ Rather than that, you decide to skip the superfluous garbage and get right to the point. “Can you be back in seven hours?”

He looks at you now - actually looks at you - and pauses, glass pressed to his lips. You’re not nervous, but you can tell he is; like a deer caught in headlights. He’s not going to inquire about what you mean or where this is going, especially given the prior “conversation” the two of you abruptly ended. “Yeah. I can do that.” He takes a sip, ice clinking in his cup.

“Pick up a bottle of Dawn.”

Dave does his best, you note, not to sputter. He makes a slight choking noise in the back of his throat and lowers his glass, placing it on the counter. After a moment, he breathes in deep, averting his gaze from you once again. The demand was both a suggestion and a question. He has to think about where exactly he wants to make this shit _hapen_. Because it’s _going_ to leave a mess and _somebody_ is gonna have to clean that up. You’re really trying your best to be considerate about his anxiety, and you think he slightly appreciates the ambiguity you’re giving him because he’s actually replying to you instead of dropping the discussion or changing the subject. “I’ll stash it in my room.“

You simply square your shoulders and nod before turning and returning from whence you came. Job done. Everybody go home. It’s a wrap!

But now you had preparations to do.

Seven hours. Dave was good on time, and you know for a fact he’d be here if you requested it. His internal clock would go bonkers if he’d been even five minutes late for something. Which, you suppose, was good and bad. The good thing was, you had faith in him arriving tonight, as promised. The bad part was making sure _you_ were ready for him.

First and foremost, you needed to set out a game plan. There were approximately 40 oz of carbonated liquids in your bottle, at full. 5 cups. You could probably down about a cup of it every hour and a half. That should be enough to fill your body and work its renal systemy wonders.

Plopping back down onto your chair, you pull your liter of soda to the edge of the desk, staring it down. If you pace yourself, you could definitely do this properly. You’d gone longer without answering nature’s call. It was a matter of indulging yourself in mind-numbing YouTube videos and drawing miscellaneous bullshit for streamers at this point. All you had to do was ignore it, get sucked into The Zone™, and wait until your brother came home.

Three hours into playing Skyrim, however, you discovered that pretending your bladder didn’t exist was a lot more difficult when you were consciously aware that _Dave_ was probably thinking about it from his studio, and the idea draped itself over you like a lead apron while the universe beamed radioactive fucking heat rays right between your legs. Fantastic, really.

You opted to stream instead, hitting Roxy up over Pesterchum to drag her into a call. As long as you could keep yourself distracted, you could manage.

She’s quick to pick up the line when you buzz her, charming and chipper as the norm. “Heeey, D! Whaddup, home bread?”

“Hombre.”

“What?”

“It’s hombre, not home bread.” She _cackles_ on the other end, and you can hear her literally slapping her knee.

“Hoo, boy! That’s embarrassing. So anyways, what’s doin’? Did you need something?” She chimes happily, tapping away on the other end. Probably typing to some of your many mutual acquaintances.

“You up for a few rounds of Team Fortress?”

“Yes, I _will_ marry you.”

“Great, get your ass online.”

 

You spend the remaining however many hours mix and matching your weapon sets for Engineer and Demoman while Roxy camps nobodies as the Sniper. The viewers get a kick out of it. You ended up laughing hard enough a few times that your stomach hurt, and you had immediately regretted it if only because your pelvis screamed in retaliation at your idiotic chortling. Games were not hard. Games were easy. But this? This was, you confess, actually really fucking annoying. A man could only hold it in for so long before he bursted, like a water balloon. Ugh. You shouldn’t have started thinking of water balloons.

Little gadgets and items strewn about your desk rattle when you begin bouncing your leg, trying to relieve some of the stress building up in you. It only helps so much. You gain a new respect for people working in the porn industry.

Thankfully, the front door unlocking allows for you to dismiss your thoughts, replaced by anticipation and former plans that were previously tucked away in your head for storage. Time to unbox and let those puppies loose. You bid a quick farewell to Roxy before removing your headset, and very slowly rise to your feet. Stiffly.

It sort of hurts, but it’s definitely nowhere even remotely close to the worst pain you’ve been in. You’re riding on the hope that it will all be worth it once you get to actually take a damn piss. Either Dave will like it, or you’ll both realize that synchronized swimming is the least interesting Olympic sport. You’ve got an empty liter of Kel’s favorite beverage that’s going to need to be repaid in full value.

You can hear Dave shucking off his coat as you exit your bedroom and enter the hall, shuffling silently into the living room. His shades are folded into the collar of his button up, tie loose around his neck. By a quick once-over of his appearance, you take notice of the plastic bag in his hand and mark down that he also remembered to pick up the soap. Good. Your eyes flit to the TV box, reading the clock. A minute early. Not too shabby. But it’s still been seven fucking hours and you’re just about ready to get this over with. “It has been seven fucking hours and I am just about ready to get this over with.”

Dave stops in mid toe off with the heel of his shoe, staring up at you. His eyes dart to the the side, then back to you, and you can tell he’s tired but you had _plans_ , that’s why he’s here, he’s going to come through with them even if he’s exhausted. Which is good for you tonight, because it’s 1AM and you want to bone your bro before taking a wicked 13 hour nap. Preferably in his bed, since he’s going to owe you big time for this. You want joint custody of the mattress. Visitation rights on weekends, and if you want to make sweet, velvety Smuppet love on his pillows, you’ll damn well do it.

Okay, maybe not the Smuppet part.

But you will eat a Snickers while laying in his comforter. That’s a promise.

“They didn’t have Dawn, so I picked up Palmolive.” He lifts the bag, giving it a shake.

You could not give a single shit about the brand of dish soap he bought, honestly. Paul Soles could have personally voice acted just exactly how little fucks you gave about _Palmolive_ in this moment and 4Channers would crap their tidy whities. “ _Dude,_ ” you state, as irritably as you can through your teeth. It still carried the monotonous drawl you have. You bounce on your feet and Dave has the balls to blink at you, like he’s offended, and you would like to reinstate the fact that you DO NOT CARE.

”Bro,” you say.

“Bro,” he repeats.

“Dave,” you rephrase.

“Dirk,” he mimics.

This is stupid.

“You are going to have to address Horton’s fat ass in the room sooner or later,” you tell him, eyes narrowing. He can’t even see them behind your sunglasses, but you’re positive he knows that you’re glaring at him anyway, because he shifts the weight on his feet after peeling off his shoes and tossing them into the bin. He starts walking towards you, and then he walks _past_ you, so you quickly turn and follow close enough behind that your hands knock with his as he marches like a fucking adult-sized toddler down the hallway. “All of my Who’s occupying Casa de Vesica Urinaria are about to be blown to the fuckin’ wind off of Whoville unless you intend to actually do something about it.” You continue to follow him to his room, which is fine, because you had originally agreed to meet here anyway.

Dave doesn’t slam the door in your face or tell you to back off when he steps inside (it’s neater than your room, since he only uses this place to sleep lately), but he stops short just as you’re sidling back up into his breathing space, and you collide into his back. He hardly even budges when you do. His benefit of being a whole head taller than you.

“Can we, like, not discuss this? Let’s go back to subtly pushing the envelope over Shiva’s lingam and avoid the giant fucking boulder rigged above the sanctuary. That was easier to deal with.” His face isn’t red, but you can hear the fluster even though he steadies his voice. He steps away from you after making a hesitation in his footwork, like he wants to look at you, but he can’t, and you absentmindedly rub a moistened palm over your thigh.

“Have you changed your mind?” You pursue, though you stand your ground, unmoving. That’s not what he meant. He wants to go back to being vague and evasive about the topic to avoid mortification, but you’re giving him an out. It’s the right thing to do, if anything.

You watch as Dave makes his way to his chair, collapsing into it as if he’s physically (a high possibility) and mentally (also a high possibility) drained, legs stretched in front of him and arms hanging over the side-rests of it. He’s slouched so far southwards that he’s not even sitting on the cushion, ass slipped far below the edge of it. He’s such a baby. Dave huffs before eyeing you, tiredly. "No."

“Jesus Christ. Sit up.” The only thing this display was missing were spotlights. Dave pulls himself up regardless of your hinted indignation and sets the bag under his desk, eyes following your movements as you start making your way over to him. “Let me handle it.” An attempt was made to reassure him, and although your brother raises an eyebrow at your words, he doesn’t complain when you slide into the chair with him. Your knees settle on either side of his hips while you situate yourself, hands on his shoulders and rump sat snugly on his lap. You’ve always liked the way he looks in suits. You may, in fact, have a thing for it.

All the better. Thank God he hasn’t suggested changing.

Can’t say you won’t feel just a little bad when it ultimately becomes ruined.

Since your bladder doesn’t have the patience anymore, as well as the rest of you, you initiate the kick off so the two of you can start this game. Leaning forward puts an uncomfortable pressure on your pelvis, jeans tight and constricting, but you power through so you can press your lips against Dave’s. He reciprocates almost instantly, palms resting on the sides of your waist. It’s slow at first. Soft. Chaste, even. You don’t want to move too much and risk any unnecessary “leakage” before you two have even gotten to that part yet. This is just to help your big bro relax and remove the stick lodged far up his rectum.

His lips move smoothly over yours when you tilt your head, and you wince inwardly as Dave pulls you a hair’s width closer. Your thighs flinch and reflexively squeeze together. Or, they would if your brother wasn’t between them. He makes a small sound in the back of his throat, seemingly encouraged, and leans back in his chair. It causes you to fall against him, chests pressed together, and for the second time you feel that uncomfortable sensation below your stomach. Bloated and aching. You release a quiet groan, shifting in Dave’s lap as you break the kiss. He chases your lips and catches them in another one, though, dragging you back down with him.

You’re about to complain before his hands slide down your thighs, kneading them briefly before they make their way back over your hips and along the waistline of your jeans. You suck in a sharp breath, mouth opening as your brother glides his tongue over your bottom lip. It sends shivers down your spine. Your boxers suddenly feel damp, and you don’t really want to think about it. It’s only a small spot, you can deal with it for now. “Dave,” you murmur into the kiss, and he takes the signal, fingers slipping under your shirt and tracing light circles over the small bulge of your bladder. Feels weird. Not bad, though.

Dave presses a palm to it, warm and gentle, while his other slides around to rest upon the small of your back. His hands are flush against your body, and a heat rises to your cheeks when he pushes lightly against your pelvis. You shudder at the feeling, hot wetness trickling involuntarily down the head of your stiffening erection. Your boxers absorb the small stream, and when Dave’s fingers decide to trace the outline of your spine, your back arches, arms breaking out in gooseflesh.

It's nice, for now. You can feel your brother getting hard the next time you roll your hips against his, dragging your ass against his crotch, and he groans beneath you with every one of your movements. Dave’s breath feathers against your philtrum, and instinctively you sniff, nose twitching against his. It would have been more comical if it weren’t for your shades sliding down their incline and landing on Dave’s face. You think, for a brief moment, it might have interrupted the mood. But he’s silent. Breaks away from you for only the few seconds it takes to pluck the sunglasses off himself and fold them into the collar of your shirt.

And then he’s back on your lips, hands confidently grabbing at your sides as he bucks against you. You permit a faint moan to ride a breeze out of your mouth when Dave presses his tongue into it, getting friendly with your own. There isn’t much for you to do, so you settle for grabbing the front of his suit, rubbing your palms along the base of his neck. Feeling him up, essentially. Your favorite part of making out is when you get to refresh your memory on what your bro’s body feels like, the way his shirt bunches between your fingers, and the icing on the cake is the window of opportunity you get as he tilts his head a smidgen to the right, just how you like it, because you have free reign to grab his tie and pull him in closer by it.

Closeness is not something your pelvis wants to agree with right now. Which, oddly, seems to be doing wonders for the wicked boner you’ve got pressed tight enough to hurt against the inside of your jeans. The wet spot is more prominent now, and your kegel muscles are certainly getting a damn workout. It’s actually exhausting. Dave’s all about leaning back in his chair and letting you slump against him as he rocks his hips into yours, clothed erection grinding against your own, and at about the fourth time he does it your body tenses.

_Sensitive._

Yes, sensitive would be the word you could use to describe this… whatever it is. A tingle? It definitely tingles. “Da-aah...” Your words muffle against his mouth as he kisses you deeper, wet and hot, tongue twirling around yours and pulling another moan from you when he flicks your palate in sync with dragging your crotch along his.

You can feel it. Your dick feels warm and constricted, and it's not your climax, but you know what it is. You release Dave’s tie, panting into the kiss as you pat his chest. He picks up on it instantly. He’s taken the reins of this, finally, and hoists you onto your knees hastily to begin undoing your buckle. For the hundredth time, the expertise he shows in macking seems to impress you, because he manages to keep you in a smooch where apparently the laws of spacetime and physics don’t mean jack shit. Sometimes you allow yourself to entertain the suspicion of, perhaps, time not applying comprehensively to Dave. Of course, that’s all kiddy bedtime story b.s. Though. Still, it’s… a thought. One that keeps you well amused when you’re feeling bored.

“Do mine.” Dave pulls away from trying to snatch your cupid's bow like the red fiddler himself, just far enough to huff the demand against your skin, brushing his lips languidly around the corners of your mouth. And so you do. Your hands are on the hem of his pants as fast as you can get them, yanking the fly open and shoving Dave’s trousers down.

His cock springs from behind the elastic, and as soon as your brother has your jeans tucked below your ass, yours does a pitiful flop against the parted zipper of your pants on its quest for freedom. Your boxers, however, decline the humble traveler its request, confining your junk to the brooding clutches of Batman’s emblem.

It’s very easy not to care about that when Dave is shoving his fingers into your mouth and dragging you back down into his lap, lazily rutting his hips into yours while his index and middle fingers massage your tongue, working it between the two of them. “You’re a champ.” Your bro praises your efforts when you do a good job at not swallowing on reflex so his fingers can get nice and coated with your saliva.

Not the _first_ time you’ve ever had to do it. But you appreciate his compliments nonetheless. He’ll have more time to talk and shower you in affectionate rambles once the pillows have deemed it an appropriate time.

With a sharp jerk of his hips, Dave urges you to move, fingers gliding out of your mouth, dripping. Messy. Again, it’s a shame about what’s going to happen to his suit. A quiet prayer finds itself inside of you that the collateral damage to Dave’s personal possessions isn’t too catastrophic. Hit the flood lights and sound the tsunami siren. “Scoot up,” he says, and so you do, breath hitching only slightly when he stretches the back of your boxers and slips a hand in.

You feel a single, wet finger sit below your rim, and you twitch in response. And then Dave presses the pad of his finger against it, rubbing the tight skin around your entrance teasingly. You opt to rest your head against his chest, concentrating on your breathing, slow and deep, and tilt your hips towards the angle of his fingers. You don’t have to say it. That’s the good thing about Dave - he doesn’t make you say anything you aren’t comfortable with.

He pushes passed the ring of muscle, sliding a slick digit inside of you, and you hold your breath. Once. Twice. Three times, he pumps it into you, until you’re adjusted and spreading your legs as far as you can with the imprisonment of your pants and the limited space on your bro’s chair. Somehow, you manage, and when Dave curls his finger to put pressure on the sensitive areas of your inner walls, you gasp.

You also leak. A lot.

It’s only a matter of time, you suppose. So you sit up, adjusting yourself for Dave’s viewing pleasure. “I’m going to touch myself,” you state, eyes trained on his lips when his tongue darts out to lick them, and then his throat when he swallows. Hard. You don’t wait for his answer, because there isn’t going to be one, and rock back against his hand. One arm braced on the back of the computer chair by Dave’s head. You’re practically horizontal with him because of how far the thing reclines. Unoccupied, you wrap a hand around your cock through the thin fabric of your boxers, slowly stroking its length. You let your voice carry, moaning softly as Dave works his finger inside of you, and then finally a second, curling and dragging them against your walls, searching for the spots that you prefer the most.

He hits them without having to search for very long, moderately deep in your ass, tips of his fingers rubbing against them. Your voice catches for a second, and Dave presses harder, dragging his fingers over the epicenter of nerves inside of you that makes your body shiver. You squeeze your dick tighter in your hands, grinding down into his palm, and you can hear the shaking intakes of air he takes when he cants his hips ever so slightly towards yours, eyes transfixed on your crotch. Just where you need them.

“Dave…” You call his name, shallowly, and that gets him to perk right the fuck up. Dave presses harder inside of you, ceasing any kind of thrusting so he can tease with the tips of his fingers - flexing them and pushing against the edges of your prostate. Your stomach flips and there’s a skip in your motions when you stroke your length, body tingling down to your waist and between your legs and -

Then he does a thing that feels like a damn flick, and you lose it. All over your underwear. And your brother’s lap.

It’s warm at first, makes you shudder, and almost tickles when your bladder releases. You can’t _not_ take notice of the very prominent scent of urine that follows after you’ve successfully pissed yourself, but it doesn’t do anything in deterring you from moaning. Sweetly.

You stand corrected, from your earlier doubts. You hadn’t expected the rush to feel this good. It’s like an orgasm, but longer, slower, more steady. It feels better with Dave working you with his hands, coaxing every drop out of you, whispering quiet words of encouragement and praise into your ear when he pulls you down and kisses the shell of it. Stretching you with his fingers while your muscles relax. You reward him with a series of keens and soft noises until you can’t take it anymore.

“I need-Mn! Out of these clothes. Now.” It’s only _a little_ difficult to get your words out, but Dave doesn’t miss a beat. He pulls his fingers from you and starts working on his pants at the same time you lift your hips enough to shimmy out of your wet boxers. The fly of your jeans is also, unfortunately, damp, and you can not be happier to get your legs out of the restricting material. The space between your thighs is soaked, and the shower proceeding whatever amazing sex you’re about to have with Dave will only consummate this brobdingnagian step that the two of you are taking in your brolationship. And yes, you really did just pull that word out of the fucking bowels of the thesaurus just for a couple of sequencing bro puns.

Anyway, there are more important things waiting to be done, literally and figuratively. “Can you turn around?” One of those things is presently requesting for you to let your back face him.

No arguments here. You’re quick to oblige once you’ve tossed your dirty clothes onto the floor and helped Dave tug his own pants down to his knees.

His hands are on your hips instantly, kneading palms against your waist and thighs, pulling you down after you’ve managed to turn. Dave grinds his cock against your ass, which he’s somehow slicked up with lubricant in the few seconds his mitts weren’t all over your backside (how?). There’s no good way for you to bring up that particular inquiry during this moment, but aside from that, you do have one reasonable complaint about the current scenario. “I need something to grab onto.”

He stops.

Swivels the chair.

Thank God.

“Better?” The desk in front of you provides, as stated previously, something to grab onto. So you nod as you reach out, bracing your palms against the edge of it. Dave is quick to get back into things once that’s been established, sliding his fingers back in briefly, doing you the favor of coating your walls sufficiently before lifting your hips so he can press the head of his dick against your rim, testing the resistance of it. You take a deep breath and hold it firmly, relaxing the same way you have a hundred times before when you begin lowering yourself down.

Dave’s breath catches and hits your ears in a way that makes them twitch. A few more teases and cautious pushing finally gets your bro inside of you, enough to give him room to start shallowly thrusting - slow to begin, he’s not trying to hurt you.

You’re hardly paying attention to whatever else is going on by the time Dave is moving, though. Perhaps you could stand to compose yourself a bit better in this kind of position, but you don’t care. When Dave is feeling good, you feel good. And vice versa. So you let him spread your thighs as far as they’ll go in the seat of his chair and-

Ok, Dave is pulling you towards himself. He’s pulling your back against his chest and lifting your legs over the armrests, hands planted under your thighs. “Dave-” Your question is promptly cut off by a gasp when he rolls his hips into you, but it’s not bad. God, no. It’s not bad at all. It’s tight and hot and his chin is tucked between your shoulder and neck, sideburns tickling your skin; your hands find their way above you, one on the back of Dave’s head, the other on the chair.

This is new.

So far it’s two for two on these experiments. The only sounds coming out of you are strings of expletives and moans when Dave physically hoists you up enough for him to start thrusting, yanking you back down onto his hips each time he rocks them upwards. “Fuck- Hah! _Dave!_ ”

_Yikes._ With a capital Y.

He doesn’t say anything, save for your name in a few breathless whispers between groans he smothers into the crook of your neck whenever your grab his hair, _hard_. Dave’s always been a quiet one, like he’s shy about anything coming out of his mouth that isn’t layered in metaphors and soliloquies to cover up all of his true feelings. It’s cute, in a way. When it’s not fucking irritating.

But, that’s neither here nor there. Not what you should be focusing on right now.

Whatever Dave is doing feels fucking _good_.

Too good, even. You can barely shut your mouth to swallow when he thrusts into you, deep and hard, muscles squeezing his cock each time it grinds against every inch of sensitive tissue inside of you. “Ooh, _God_ \- Dave-” You’re only slightly ashamed of how much you’re moaning his name, crying out for a being you’ve never believed in, telling him how amazing it feels because you know he likes the encouragement and you’re not one to lie to him.

If the way he drags your ass down is anything to go by, you could say he appreciates it.

You’re practically seeing stars when the head of his dick presses roughly behind your prostate, worn out and overexposed to this much stimulation. It feels like it should be too soon for you to orgasm, but you’ve been holding yourself back all day. A bit of relief should be nice. So nice. So _very_ fucking nice, like how Dave feels pushing and pulling from under you, how tight you feel around his cock when he slides so perfectly inside of you - slicked up and hard and so very, very good.

It crashes down on you too fast and too abruptly when the pressure in your abdomen suddenly spikes, and before you can garble out a pathetic warning for Dave, his hand is on your length. Fingers gingerly wrapped around it, moving in light, fleeting strokes, and it’s enough to have your body shuddering and voice reaching notes you’ve never hit before.

Your hips twitch responsively before slivers of white are coating the insides of your thighs and Dave’s knuckles. Everything is hot and blurry and you think you might be drooling just a bit. Your brother is still pumping himself inside of you, buried to the hilt, arm wrapped tight around your chest. You can feel his face smothered against the nape of your neck, breath tickling your hair every time he pants wantonly or mumbles out your own name underneath his tiny, shaky moans, as if he’s scared you’ll hear him.

Dave presses kisses to your skin with each roll of his hips and you take him in, despite being spent and over-sensitive, because he’s close (you know him, you can tell without him needing to voice it). “Mmn- _Dave_ -” He’s desperately seeking more of your heat and constriction, so you do him the favor of uttering as many encouraging phrases as you can. It’s good, he feels good, he’s so cute, he can come now it’s okay he can come inside of you.

The sound he makes is nothing short of a squeal, muffled and strangled, swallowed down and hitched. Dave tenses, freezing as he grabs you close, taking those few seconds to peak and loll his forehead down against your shoulder as he catches his breath. You can hear a wet sniff, followed by a heavy, trembling sigh. Dave sobbed. You would have found that excessively adorable if you, yourself, weren’t currently putty in his lap and dripping four kinds of substances from your body.

 

You aren’t keeping track of how long you sit there after Dave has slid out of you. You’re sure it’s bordering on five or seven minutes. A sufficient amount of time to gather your bearings again and regain your composure. Enough to finally wipe the drying saliva from your lips and shift in Dave’s grip, fumbling as subtly as you can in search of the arm rests to push your legs down. “Dave.” Your voice is just the slightest bit hoarse. You clear your throat. “We need to shower. Everything is a fucking mess.” Normally, you wouldn't mind. You’d have no qualms with cuddling up and falling asleep after doing the nasty. But, honestly, it’s all reeking of urine here and the worst part is that it’s _yours_.

Dave groans tiredly in response, but it’s not a complaint, thankfully. It takes some expert finagling to push yourself out of the seat (your groin cramps, twice) and remove Dave’s vice grip from around your waist. You don’t bother with worrying about your clothes when you peel your shirt off and drop it to the floor. Your brother is less cooperative with things when you pull him to his feet and help him out of his spectacularly ruined suit (tragic). Nonetheless, he’s just as butt naked as you are when it’s all said and done, and he’s apt to using you as his support when you walk him out of the room and down the hallway.

 

Showering isn’t anything significant. You’re both fucking exhausted and you’d rather lather up and rinse off before you or Dave (specifically Dave, he’s done it before) fall asleep in the tub. The last thing you need is to wake up on the shower floor like you’re fresh out of an episode of I Shouldn’t Be Alive. Pruned to all shit isn’t something you have written on your bucket list. So you thoroughly scrub the places that matter most in the land down under with soaped up hands as quickly as you can, and even offer a small back rub to your brother. It’s the least you can do, after putting him through an embarrassing predicament. You know he’s not going to bring it up, and because of that neither are you.

You’re lucky that you can manage to get Dave’s pajama bottoms on, let alone a clean pair of boxers for him once you’ve walked him back to the room. His head hits the pillows and you’re pretty sure Dave is comatose. Down for the count, which is fine by you. It gives you some time to wind down and get to cleaning up the bedroom, starting with the discarded clothes around the computer chair. You hastily deposit those into a basket and carry it to the fucking laundry room to be rid of it after patting down the pockets. Double the amount of detergent, shove some towels in there to soak up the suds.

Laundry isn’t your chore anyway.

There’s one thing that seems to bother you when you return to the room with a roll of paper towels and a damp wash cloth.

You don’t find it in the plastic bag when you fish out the dish soap. You don’t find it under the chair or on the desk. You didn’t find it in Dave’s pockets on your second trip to the washing machine to check the clothes. Instead, you find it in his nightstand, buried under two notebooks and several sheets of crumpled papers, a tiny bottle of lubricant pushed into the back of the drawer.

To say you’re simply baffled is a bit of an understatement, and the discovery makes you give your brother’s sleeping form a look you’ve rarely permitted yourself in expressing so openly. The connotations of what you found and _experienced_ firsthand settle like a rock within your stomach. Perhaps you’re overthinking it. There has to be a logical explanation behind this. He could have tossed it onto the bed while you weren’t looking, then stuffed it into his nightstand while you were out of the room.

There were a lot of strange things about Dave. Things you were better off leaving unquestioned. Like the times he appears to catch you right before a dicey fall, despite being in his own room moments prior to seeing him, or when he shows up at your door on days when your moods are in the sub-zero category. As if he knows.

This was weird.

You decide to shut the drawer and cease thinking about it. The less you knew, the better you were off.

And the easier you could crawl into bed beside Dave and allow yourself to get close to him, tucked under the covers, your nose in his chest. Warm. Comfortable. You preferred this over the analyzing bullshit. The calm after a long day, where you get to shuck your burdens and relax against Dave’s softness.

As you close your eyes, he shifts, and you feel an arm drape over your waist before it pulls you in. It’s nice. The kind of thing that makes you never want to leave the mattress. Or the moment. You could live in this forever. His heartbeat in your ears and arms around your body; protective, loving. Everything you could have asked for, and more. Dave’s lips gently press a kiss into the top of your head, and you choose to wrap your own arms around him, legs tangling with his.

“You’re welcome,” you mutter, which earns a quiet huff from your bro. You’ll accept it as a suitable thanks, and the proceeding nuzzle as a silent _I love you._


End file.
